“Di niente.” He shook his head, and it was like breaking a spell – or postponing its hold at least. “I’ll be right back.”
But she padded behind him, so that as he pushed the towels and her clothes into the washer, he was conscious of her leaning against the doorjamb watching him with an undisguised curiosity of her own. “You’re more domesticated than you look.”
He added a tablet and shut the door, pressed some buttons then stood. “You don’t know that – I could very well have ruined your clothes by putting them on the wrong setting.”
She shrugged. “That’s true.”
And though he knew he should resist the temptation to flirt with her, he heard himself say, “And how do I look…?” He deliberately let his question taper off, realising he didn’t know her name.
“Maddie,” she supplied.
“Maddie,” he repeated. It suited her. Soft and sweet but somehow confident too. “Well?” He prompted.
“You look like a man who’s never used a washing machine in his life,” she grinned, after a slight pause. “Or maybe it’s just that this place looks like it should come with an army of help…”
He laughed at that. “True. But I prefer to be alone when I’m in Ondechiara.”
“You don’t live here?”
“No.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “So you’re just renting the place? Like a holiday home?”
He frowned. In the village he was well known, but beyond that, the Montebello name was a global one. That she hadn’t heard of him was a fascinating novelty. “No. It’s mine.”
She narrowed her gaze speculatively and for a brief second he was reminded of his initial belief that she might be a journalist. “It’s truly lovely.”
“Si.” He stepped towards her, intending to leave the usually light-filled laundry, but she didn’t shift, so his movement simply brought them close once more. “And what brings you to this tiny little town on the edge of Italy, Maddie?” He liked saying her name. It rolled off his tongue in a way that was addictive.
For the briefest moment, her smile slipped and her eyes darkened. It was a striking contrast to the easy amusement he’d enjoyed seeing moments earlier. “That’s a long story.”
He looked over his shoulder, to the rain that was lashing the window behind him, plunging the house into a state of gloom. “We seem to have a bit of time.”
“True,” she murmured, straightening, but still not moving, and not answering his question. Their eyes were locked and though they weren’t touching, the look was intimate and unnerving, addictive and heated. She broke the spell this time. “I don’t mean to be rude, but would you mind if I have a warm drink? A tea perhaps? I think the rain’s seeped into my skeleton.”
“Of course.”
She stepped back now, allowing him to pass, but as he did
so, their arms brushed and he felt a burst of awareness, so he tilted his head towards her. She was staring at him, stricken, and he understood. The tension bubbling between them was arcing two ways, a powerful electrical current that was somehow intensified by the storm raging beyond the house.
She followed behind him – he felt her – into the large kitchen that opened off the lounge room. “Have a seat,” he gestured to the stools parked at the marble bench top.
“I can make it. I really didn’t mean to put you out…”
“It’s no trouble,” he repeated, flicking the kettle on and pulling a mug from the pantry. For himself, he scooped some coffee into the coffee cradle and pressed a button, watching as the dark liquid began to pool into his espresso cup. “You were telling me why you’re in Ondechiara?”
“Was I?”
She was intentionally evasive, he was sure of it. It sparked curiosity and a hint of caution – hadn’t he learned his lesson about women who were secretive by nature? He didn’t want to think of Claudette though. He’d promised himself a long time ago that she didn’t deserve his consideration after what she’d done.
“You don’t have to if you’d prefer not to discuss it.” His words were unintentionally clipped, the ghost of Claudette filling him with reminders of disgust – at her easy deception and his gullibility.
“Thank you.”
Her response surprised him. She made no attempt to obfuscate, no attempt to lie. She simply chose not to answer him.
He studied her more thoughtfully now, new possibilities opening up to him. Was she a runaway? A fugitive?